Rachel Wyld

when disaster strikes anywhere in the world, they are always first on the scene

He was still in the mud room and in the middle of getting his boots off when a voice piped up behind him. “Dad?” “Shh!” Jeff quickly got off his other boot and turned to see Scott and John standing behind him. How on Earth they’d slipped up so quietly, he’d never know. “Is your Mom home?” “No, why?” John asked. “I’ve got a little surprise for her. I’ve gotta hide it somewhere she won’t find it,” Jeff told them with a wry half smile. Hiding anything from Lucy was a mission in and of itself. “Wanna see?” “Yes!” both boys chorused and came closer. Jeff sat down on the step between the mudroom and the hallway, the boys draping themselves over his shoulders, and he pulled the bag out from inside his jacket. Delving into it, he pulled out a jeweller’s box and cracked it open to show them what lay inside: an oval green-gold gemstone pendant about a quarter the length of his thumb, slung on a golden chain. “Whadda ya think?” Jeff grinned. “Pretty. What is it?” John had his eyes fixed on the stone, fascinated by the play of light on the cut facets. “Olivine, and specifically, it’s pallasite meteorite olivine,” Jeff told them, well pleased by the ‘oooh’ from his eldest sons. “Think she’ll like it?” “Mom’s gonna love it!” Scott grinned. “Great, now, howsabout you two help me figure out where to hide it until her birthday?” “Yes!” They chorused, then scampered off to look for good hiding spots.

Pulling himself out of bed might be the hardest thing John’s ever done. The world tilts around more axis than should possibly exist when he sits upright and swings his legs over the side of the bed, and it’s only because his face isn’t squashed against the floor that he can tell he isn’t horizontal again. Fireworks flash across his vision for as long as the world is spinning, and he has to sit for an embarrassingly long time before it fades enough to consider standing.  He pulls his slightly sweaty bed shirt over his head, tossing it into the laundry hamper and staggers to the dresser for something clean and soft and comforting. His t-shirts are in the bottom drawer, which – he realises too late – is the worst possible place. When he bends over to rummage for his favourite he feels his entire brain tip,  pressing against the front of his skull. It’s like pushing on a bruise or stretching a sprain  - not painful at all until movement triggers it, and then it’s agony.  In that moment it feels like John’s brain is trying to ooze out of his ears, and if that were the case he wouldn’t try and prevent it if it would make the pain stop. He braces himself against the top of the dresser until the pressure subsides to the baseline level of pain he’s lived with for the past week, and decides he doesn’t need a change of clothes after all.

John was near the stern, looking out to sea. He had enjoyed looking at all the planes on board as well as the ships sailing by - business and pleasure, but this too was a sight to see. Especially as he had grown just a smidge annoyed of hearing Scott talk about the T-34 Mentor to the Scouts, so he had a bit of peace to enjoy it. John was amazed at how the light and clear blue sky would reflect off the Gulf of Mexico, turning the normally brownish waters the same beautiful color. Out in the distance, some offshore oil rigs still dotted the distance. While biofuels and renewable sources were finally being produced with an even lower waste footprint, there still was the need for some oil products. He was feeling a bit tired and warm from the sun as he leaned over the side to look at what appeared to be a pod of dolphins swimming by... or were they those blue men-of-war that Gordon said don't touch? There were others sounds, but they seemed distant and blurred. John watched the pod seem to double and triple in size, confusing him. Then his head started feeling light. "Oh no." He thought vaguely, as a few moments later as he hit the rail at his waist. The pilot gave a faint yelp as he tilted over, the vertigo getting worse as he saw thick netting and a more angry water churning by the hull. His vision started to swim as he kept moving forward. He tried to grab the rail, but caught air instead... A pair of rough hands grab his baldric and pulled back. John stumbled from the course correction and fell back, still feeling as though the world was going down a drain... The same hands cradled him under the arms now as he was then set on the ground. The person was propping him up against their legs and chest. There were running sounds on the deck toward them, but they sounded about the same as the waves - ocean or his ears John wasn’t sure. The person holding him had a hand on his jaw, trying to get him to look at them. He could see someone, even though the image was slightly blurry as grey edges flickered in his blind spots. John just couldn't speak. There were more muddled sounds nearby, vocalizing a sound similar to a distant flock of seagulls. That was until louder bass timber - a voice John reminded himself - shooed them away. The same voice then tried again to get John to speak. He tried this time, but all that came out was a soft moan. John then felt the other person's hand run through his hair, who also assured him he was all right. Between the hand and then a light kiss on the top of his head, John realized he was indeed conscious and being held by a brother. Otherwise, he'd be stretched out on the deck - and admittedly the kiss would be a little odd. Then the same gentle hand was at his throat, checking his pulse. "John - can you hear me now?" said Virgil as he leaned into John's view, gently lifting his chin again to check the redhead's eye reaction.

The engine of Lee’s little Piper PA-28 fixed wing roared into life and little Scotty, all of four years old, squealed in alarm and clapped his hands over his ears. Jeff, standing well back at the hangar, scooped Scott up and held him close until the plane had taxied over to the runway.  “Y’know, planes aren’t that scary,” he fondly said as soon as the plane was far enough away. “It’s just noise, nothing to be afraid of.”  “‘S not?” Scott asked, big eyes looking up at his father as he peeled his hands away from the sides of his head.  “Nope.” Jeff smiled. “Besides, we need the noise to fly, and that’s what we’re here to do, right?”  “Right.” Scott nodded, his little face so serious it made him go all gooey on the inside at the sight.  “So,” Jeff affected a serious mein (Lucy always called it his ‘Top Gun’ face), pulled his aviators out from where he’d hooked them on his shirt and put them on his nose. “Let’s saddle up, kiddo.”  Scott immediately put on his kiddie sized aviators (and Jeff went even gooier on the inside) and announced “Let’s saddle up!”  “Attaboy!” Jeff beamed as he walked over to his plane.

"That will be all, Parker." "Very good, M'Lady. Very good."

“Scott, and I’m one-hundred percent serious about this, do you want me to come down there and make you some pasta?”

Lucy bit her lip as she looked down on the sleeping form of John tightly wrapped around Scott.  It was a rare role reversal for the two boys, and one she cherished as such. Normally Scott would be the one doing the comforting, but those men had badly scared her five-year-old, and three-year-old John had immediately curled around Scott once she'd settled him on her bed.

The letter’s weight hadn’t changed in his hands, even if it’s appearance had. Once crisp sharp edges were now crumpled and the two folds were starting to rip where he had folded and unfolded it so many times.  Practically, he knew the letter was exactly the same weight as it had been when his course supervisor had handed it to him. Except, as days had become a week, the weight had felt heavier in John’s chest. He only had another week to think about it, his supervisor had warned it would take all summer to make the appropriate arrangements. His professors had all seemed convinced that he would go, it wasn’t every day you got invited to study at Oxford University after all. 

“You're an idiot,” John handed him the towel that was draped on a utilitarian plastic chair by the wall. Which Gordon's shivering hands nearly dropped directly. John caught it, reveling in being the coordinated one for once and then wrapped it rather forcefully around his little brother, pinning his arms to his sides.